Isolation and Collaboration

Though the etymological origins of “collaboration” means, literally, to “work together”, the most gratifying collaborative efforts I’ve been involved with always begin in isolation. By isolating myself with the object of my affection; a vineyard site or a wine already being raised in the cellar, I can better determine where it seems to want to go. Really, the act of isolation is one of extreme listening; if I am distracted by others or by my phone, technology…whatever the case may be, I am no longer present. I am no longer open to receiving any inspiration that may exist in the moment.

By isolating myself with the object of my affection; a vineyard site or a wine already being raised in the cellar, I can better determine where it seems to want to go.

It appears that the winemakers and vineyard managers with whom I’ve worked in the past, and with whom I am working now, are very much the same way. Perhaps that is why our collaborative efforts have proven to be successful, insofar as we are proud of the work we’ve produced together.

As individuals, we interpret a vineyard site or a wine through the prism of our own experiences, perseverance and creative impulses. Then, when we come together to move a project forward, we each share our insights with each other. The most satisfying acts of collaboration always have about them an element of surprise and the unpredictable. While I am considering the direction of a certain project, or vineyard site, or wine, others are doing the same, but from their own perspectives. I do enjoy when I’m sitting in a room with co-workers and discover some element of a project that had not yet occurred to me. It could be that someone has an historic understanding of a site that I don’t have, or perhaps I’ve discerned something about a wine’s potential texture that hadn’t yet occurred to someone else. Those moments solidify for me that misanthropy, which can be a tendency of mine, is not as sustaining as communion.

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Beyond being an ideal accompaniment for a meal, a bottle of wine can set the mood of a room. Just as music and soft, ambient lighting are essential to a calm and lovely repast, a bottle of wine can add a narrative arc to an evening…contributing history, humanity and nature to the stories shared around the table. I think about these things when considering what wine to pair with a meal.

Terroir is often spoken about as if it’s a fixed construct; unmovable, definitive. It’s as if the terroir of Burgundy, for example, lives off in an ethereal realm, elusive yet sacrosanct; something to represent and uphold at all costs. Carrying this example even further, what defines the terroir of Burgundy’s most coveted sites, after all? Standing on the hillsides there, observing those storied sites, one comes to understand that many of them came into existence not because of their ephemeral terroir, but as the result of man-made choices bound by history, logistics and practicalities.

While Nature can provide great solace and solitude, it can also be the source of great bonding with other human beings. I have had some of my loneliest moments walking through bustling European cities where I cannot speak with the locals, cannot ask for directions, and have trouble ordering a simple meal. Sometimes it’s hard to bond with anyone even if you’re moving through a sea of humanity.

Conversely, I have had some of the strongest and most memorable bonding experiences with others in remote locations, out in the wilds of Nature.

A few years ago, my family and I experienced such a moment while visiting the Sierras. We were visiting Kirkwood with the intention of doing some cross-country skiing. It took us a while to get there, so it was already mid-day by the time we got started.